Stealing Sturgis

by Matthew Iden

  Randy laughed, a braying sound that startled Lee. “I remember your grandpa.”

  Lee smiled. “He was a character. He told me once he used to fight Ralph Stanley and his brother, cross the country line every Saturday night, looking for trouble. The way he’d tell it, the Stanleys went into the music business to get away from him.”

  “They were probably scared of his driving. Folks used to clear out if they heard he was coming into town. They’d get off the streets for fear of getting run over.”

  Lee thought about the nights he’d spent at his grandpa’s place in the hills. His mother would drop him off for weeks at a time when she’d had to travel to find work. Grandpa always had answers. If Lee had a question, Grandpa would tell it like it was, waxing poetic as he dispensed advice, the skin on his neck bobbing up and down like the wattles on a turkey as he spoke.

  “The key to making it,” his grandpa would say, “is to work hard, honest, and long, believe in the Lord, and good things will come your way.” He’d talk about the Depression, the kind of work they’d had to do, logging or road work for the state twelve or sixteen hours a day to get enough food for the family. How they’d steal cardboard from the back of the five and dime to resole their shoes. Lee had asked if stealing, then, was considered working hard and his grandpa looked at him, cross, and said maybe Lee didn’t want to hear any more stories, seeing as how he had all the answers.

  Lee and Randy killed time telling stories about women and booze. How drunk they’d been, or who they remembered from high school, or the time most of Brumley caught on fire. They talked about sports. Lee liked all the Carolina teams even though he’d never lived there. Randy said his favorite team was the Kansas City Royals because of a game he’d watched when he was a little kid. He and his dad were ready to turn the game off when George Brett went insane over some call the umpire made. Randy started laughing as he described the wild look in Brett’s eye, ready to tear the umpire limb from limb. It took three guys to knock Brett down before he could do any damage. Both benches cleared. Everyone wrestling good old George to the ground to keep him from punching someone in the eye. Randy said it was the best game of baseball he’d ever watched and he’d been a KC fan ever since, even though Brett had retired.

  “Who won the game?” Lee asked.

  “Huh? Hell, I don’t know,” Randy replied. “Who cares?”

  A couple hours later, they pulled into a motel outside of Indianapolis. The clerk, looking bored and tired, took their cash, gave them the key to a room with two singles, and told them there was a truck stop called The Station next door, but the kitchen closed at ten. They threw their stuff in the room and ran over to grab a bite before the place shut down. It was the size of an airplane hangar, sporting the restaurant, a gift shop, an arcade, and even showers for truckers that belonged to The Station’s Members Club. The place was a mishmash of truckers, locals, and late-night travelers trying to avoid highway traffic.

  The restaurant was called the Weigh Station and offered a steak and mashed potatoes with drink for just eight ninety-five plus tax. They sat at a booth with vinyl seats that squeaked when they sat down and told their waitress that the special would be just fine, thank you, no need for a menu. Worn out, neither one of them said much during the meal until Randy jabbed Lee in the shoulder. He motioned towards the waitress serving the tables on the other side of the room. The girl was about five-five with chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail. Despite the late hour, she was smiling at her customers, unlike their own waitress, who was solidly middle-aged, wide as a tank, and had barely said a word to them.

  “She’s a sweet little thing, ain’t she?” Randy said.

  Lee swallowed and dug back into the mashed potatoes on his plate. They were lumpy and the gravy was a bit on the gray side, but edible. “A little young.”

  “If there’s grass on the field, son, play ball.”

  Lee shook his head at that old one. “Get your mind off it, bud. We have to rise and shine early tomorrow.”

  “I can sleep in the truck.” Randy finished in a hurry and pushed his plate back. He stood, wiping his hands on his pant legs and walked over to the girl, who was at the counter now, watching her tables empty out and talking to their waitress. Lee saw Randy grin as he approached her and the girl smiled back, hesitantly and with that neutral look that professionals use when dealing with the public. Randy must’ve cracked a joke, then, because the girl’s smile brightened a little and she laughed. The other waitress, with a disgusted look, left the counter and came to Lee’s table with the check. Lee thought briefly about getting a piece of lemon pie, but decided against it. He gave the waitress a twenty and told her to keep the change, then slid out of the booth.

  Randy was on his way over. “You got some cash I can borrow?” he asked.

  Surprised, Lee said, “What for?”

  “She’s getting off in ten minutes,” Randy said, motioning over his shoulder with a tilt of his head. “I thought I’d show her a good time. The arcade’s the only place to go, so I figured twenty should do it.”

  “Randy, we don’t have much money. We have to get to South Dakota on about a hundred bucks.”

  “I know it, Lee,” Randy said, glancing over his shoulder and hoping the girl wasn’t watching them argue. “It probably won’t take all of it. I’ll bring you back the change.”

  “You sure know how to push things,” Lee said, angry. “I’m paying for the hotel, the meals, dragging your ass all the way there.”

  “Yeah, and I’m the one who had the idea in the first place, remember? The one that’s going to get you and your darling Raylene out of a jam? So I think that makes us about even. Don’t screw me on this, Lee. You’ve had your sweet thing to go back to every night while I dragged ass back to the Pit.”

  Lee looked over Randy’s shoulder at the girl, who was watching them and smiling. Sighing, he reached back and fished out a twenty. He handed it to Randy and said, “Just don’t bring her back to the room, okay? I’m going to need some sleep if I’m going to do all the goddamn driving tomorrow.”

  Randy clapped Lee on the shoulder. “Thanks, bud. I owe you.” He pocketed the twenty and went back to the girl.

  “No kidding,” Lee said and left, feeling like an old man. He was Pops, paying for the meal, handing out twenties like they were candy. You kids have a swell time now. He trudged over to the motel, checked to make sure the truck was locked, and went to bed. He fell asleep almost immediately, but slept badly. Twice he woke, heart pounding, as police sirens screamed by on the highway.

  He’d finally fallen dead asleep around two in the morning when the door banged open. He sat bolt-upright in bed to see Randy and the waitress from the Weigh Station stumble in the room, faces glued to each other. They separated long enough to slam the door shut, giggling, then fell down just shy of the other bed. Lee could smell the beer on them. They whispered loudly at each other to be quiet and managed to get in bed where they proceeded to set several new world records. Lee rolled over towards the wall, wrapped the pillow around his head, and tried to get some sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Randy woke with a theory. It went like this:

  Dangling from the middle of the inside of his head was a string. A really tough string, like fishing line. It hung down a few inches, so it rested in a loop on the top of his brain. In the middle of the night, when he was asleep and dreaming about waitresses and truck stops, some son of a bitch had snuck into the room and, without him knowing it, reached up his ass, twirled their index finger around that string two or three times, then yanked as hard as they could, turning him inside out.

  It was the only possible explanation for how bad he felt.

  Of course, it could’ve been the case of Bud Light he’d polished off with no help from…what was her name? He hoped she was gone. Lord, he needed a cigarette, but he was afraid to move for fear he’d puke. He stared at the wall for about five minutes before he took a deep breath and slowly rolled to his right side,
like a stack of bricks being pushed over. No girl. Randy looked at the end table. No cigarettes or lighter. That didn’t mean much, seeing as how he didn’t remember coming back to the motel. Without moving his head much, he was able to look down. An open condom wrapper on the floor. That was a good sign. No, there were two. Even better. Too bad he didn’t remember that, either.

  A pale gray light leached through a crack around the door where the jamb was crooked. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to tell him something else: no Lee. The bed was made and there was no sign of a bag. That didn’t mean much. The prude had probably slept in the truck all night. Or gone to breakfast and let Randy crawl out of bed on his own. He lay there and thought about it, then frowned. Why no bag, then?

  He sat bolt-upright in a panic, then shouted and clapped both hands to his head, falling back on the bed. Whoever had pulled on that string was now kicking his eyeballs from the back. Slower this time, he tried again, pressing his right thumb to the soft part behind his temple. He swung his feet carefully over the side, managed to slip out of bed, and attempted to put on his clothes from the night before. The jeans went on okay, but he couldn’t get the shirt on so he dropped it, then stumbled into the bathroom. He splashed some water on his face and rinsed a little in his mouth to get rid of the sour, old-socks taste. He now had both hands free to press his head together, which helped a lot, especially if he pushed inwards in time with his pulse. He staggered to the door and threw it open, shutting his eyes too late as the bright morning sun blinded him.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Lee said. He was half sitting, half leaning on the outside windowsill of their room, a cigarette in his hand.

  “Oh, God, please tell me that ain’t the last one,” Randy croaked.

  Lee handed over the Marlboros and the lighter without a word. Randy let go of his head and lit a cigarette with cupped hands. He took a deep drag and blew it out, wanting to cry it tasted so good. After a minute, he opened his eyes a crack and said, “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “I don’t,” Lee said. “I hate smoking. Probably what my mama died of. But it was about the only thing to do once you came home with that girl.”

  “You could’ve joined in,” Randy said with a sick laugh that turned into a smoker’s wheeze and hacking cough.

  Lee made a face. “No thanks, bud. You two were doing just fine. ’Til one of you puked.”

  Randy’s hand stopped in the middle of lifting the cigarette to his mouth. “You serious?”

  “I’m afraid so. We might want to clear out before the maids come and hand us a bill.”

  “No kidding,” Randy said. He turned to go back in and stopped. “Hey, not bad for the kid, huh?”

  “What?”

  “Me. Nailing that waitress,” he said. “Took me less than an hour to talk her into it.”

  Lee looked at him. “Yeah, you’re a real Casanova, all right.”

  “Hell, yeah,” Randy said, then put the cigarette in his mouth and reached into his jeans pockets. “And here’s your change, just like I said. Six bucks and some.”

  Lee held out his hands to cup the money as Randy gave him a couple of crumpled bills and some coins, then slapped him on the shoulder and went inside.

  Lee looked down at his hands for a moment and slowly put the cash in his pocket. He didn’t really want to touch it. If they didn’t need the money for lunch, he’d think about flushing all of it down the toilet.

  They got back on the road. There was no sense in asking Randy to drive, so Lee took the first shift again, letting him sleep off his hangover. In truth, no one had thrown up, but it had gotten Randy moving, which was just fine with Lee, seeing as how he’d gotten about three hours of sleep and needed to either get going or sign on for another night at the motel.

  It had been a rough night. He’d watched the girl grab her stuff and hightail it out of there after Randy had passed out for a second time. Lee had tried to fall asleep for an hour, then surrendered to insomnia and gone outside to watch the trucks pass on the highway. At six, he’d debated when it would be allowable to throw a bucket of ice water on Randy. He’d stood to do just that, when he’d heard Randy yell “Jesus!” and knew his partner had either found God or was in the process of discovering he had the mother of all hangovers.

  After another hour on the road, Lee still didn’t know what to make of Indiana nor Illinois. They were pretty enough once they’d driven past the grunge of Indianapolis. But he’d never seen anything so flat. He took to biting the inside of his cheek raw and slapping himself to keep from falling asleep at the wheel, the blows getting harder and harder since they were having less of an effect each time.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Randy asked at one point, peering out from underneath his hat.

  “Trying to stay awake, asshole,” Lee snapped.

  “Lord, pull over and let me drive. You’re going to knock yourself out and get us both killed at that rate.”

  Lee wasn’t sure Randy was in a state to drive, but after they switched, he was sound asleep in ten minutes, not caring if they wrecked as long as he was asleep when they did.

  A few miles down the road, Randy looked over and made sure Lee was sleeping, then cranked the truck up to eighty-five and moved to the left-hand lane, passing people like they were sitting still. The old truck rattled the whole time, but it seemed to rock Lee to sleep.

  Most of Illinois passed in a blur as he cut north towards Wisconsin. Their goal was to catch the great northern byway, Route 90, straight to Sturgis. After a few hours behind the wheel, Randy started fading in and out of consciousness himself, kept awake only by the excitement of the occasional curve in the road and the rattle of gravel and garbage hitting the belly of the truck as he veered over the yellow line. Once, however, he nodded off entirely, only snapping awake as they hit a set of rumble strips along the side of the road with a sound like a machine gun going off. With his heart pounding near his Adam’s apple, he fought to bring the truck under control as it careened off the road. They hit the rumble strips again on the way back with the trailer fishtailing behind, weaving back and forth across the dotted line like a drunk. Looking over, he expected to see Lee coming back at him with that calm, accusing stare, but his homie was fast asleep, the swaying of the truck having shoved his head under one armpit.

  With that, Randy decided it was time to switch. He pulled into a rest stop to fill the tank, grabbed some more Ho Hos and Coke, and shook Lee awake. “Your turn, bud,” he said. “About two hundred to get to the border.”

  Lee took over and they crossed the bottom of Wisconsin in silence, both of them feeling fuzzy and barely there. Randy made a halfhearted attempt at conversation about which was worse—Lone Star or Olympia—but Lee wasn’t interested in talking and Randy stayed quiet the rest of the ride. There were more bikers on the road and Lee wondered if they were headed for Sturgis or if this was just the usual amount of bikers on the road at any given time.

  They finally cashed it in as signs for a town called Onalaska came into view. “According to your map, dated nineteen eighty-one,” Randy said, giving Lee a look, “that’ll put us on the Wisconsin-Minnesota border. We could stop there. There’ll be a load of driving to do tomorrow, but we can do it if we push.”

  “Good enough,” Lee said, weary. About four miles outside of town they found a small motel that could’ve been the twin of the one from the night before. It propped up a convenience store that was missing several letters from its sign. Past the store squatted a diner that boasted its specials on a cardboard sign. A Laundromat finished off the sad-looking row of storefronts, providing most of the light for the parking lot from the bright fluorescent tubes overhead. Business looked slow. A few guys stopped at the convenience store to snag cigarettes and beer while some kids loitered by the curb near the door, scuffing a can back and forth, their hands shoved in their pockets.

  Beat, Lee and Randy parked the truck and trudged into the office. The night clerk was a large woman in her fifties with a huge h
ead of hair wrapped in a bun that resembled something between a bouffant and a football. She had small, dark eyes set deep in the flesh of her face.

  “We’d like a room for the night, please,” Lee said, trying to be pleasant.

  “Single or double?” the woman asked, her eyes flicking from Lee to Randy, who was leaning against the counter.

  “If double means two beds, ma’am, then a double would be fine.”

  “You here for the strawberry festival?” she asked as she got them their key.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “The classic car show is here on Sunday.”

  “Is that so?” Lee said mildly.

  “Sign here, please,” she said, pushing a slip of paper towards him. “Mind if I ask what you’re here for?”

  “We’re not, really,” Randy said, speaking for the first time. “We’re on our way to Sturgis. You know, for the motorcycle rally.”

  “Oh,” she said. Her face was still flat and unreadable, but her lips were slightly more pinched.

  “Anything wrong with that?” Randy asked.

  The woman shook her head. “No, not if you’re into that kind of thing.”

  “I hear tell it’s a good time,” Randy said. His face lit up. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you come with us? I bet you’d look good on a Hog.”